by Elisa Braden
“… arrived early because Grandmama insisted on leaving Ellery Hall fully three weeks ago. I told her it was only two days’ travel, but she claimed it would be cooler in the north. A miscalculation, I daresay …”
Who was the man Hannah had been standing with? Jonas’s height. Blond hair. Highborn handsomeness that brought to mind winged gods in Florentine paintings. Hadn’t some of those gods plummeted to their deaths after their wings melted? He thought so.
“… in any event, that is why we arrived before everybody else. Lady Wallingham has let us ramble about hither and thither, and it has been lovely. Simply lovely. The beach, the gardens, the library. Oh! And the horses. Magnificent. Lord Wallingham keeps a superb stable. What was your question, again?”
He cleared his throat. “Did you see anyone leaving when you first arrived? Perhaps carrying a trunk.”
“Not that I recall. Everything was a bit hectic, as we were not expected to arrive so early. The Grimsgate staff has shown us the utmost courtesy …”
Perhaps Lady Holstoke would know who Hannah’s fair-haired god was. She seemed to know everyone here, as if she’d penned the guest list for Lady Wallingham herself.
“… did you say you were from, Mr. Hawthorn?”
He gave the chit a smile, noting how her cheeks pinkened every time he did. “London,” he answered, shrugging. “Largely.”
“You must find Northumberland a relief. London is stifling in summer. Though, I had a marvelous time in town during the season. I don’t recall seeing you there.”
He widened his grin and leaned in close. Most people found such a move disarming—usually females. “Would you remember me if you had, Miss Meadows?”
“Oh!” she breathed, fluttering her lashes and turning pinker. “Yes. Yes, I certainly would.”
There. Now he needn’t explain how she wouldn’t have seen him prancing about Mayfair ballrooms because he was a lowborn Bow Street runner who fetched thieves for a living. He straightened. Above the woman’s blonde curls, he spotted Nash. “I do beg your pardon. I see an old acquaintance I must speak to.”
“Perhaps we will converse again?” Her tone was hopeful.
He inclined his head. “’Twould be a pleasure.”
She said something else, but he’d already started across the lawn toward the man who might have the answers he wanted.
“I need a name, Nash.”
The butler turned and raised a salt-and-rust brow. “Only one, sir?”
“For now.” He swiftly scanned the crowd, spotting the de-winged god conversing with a honey-haired pixie. “There. Who is he?”
Nash frowned. Peered past the fountain and tables. “That is Lord Wallingham, sir.”
“For the love of God, Nash. I know Wallingham. I am wearing his coat.”
Squinting, Nash tried again. “The sizable fellow with the spectacles? That is Mr. Reaver. He is the owner of a gaming club in—”
“I also know Mr. Reaver,” Jonas snapped. “Blue coat. Gold hair. Looks like he tumbled out of a painting.”
“Ah. Lord Colin Lacey. Younger brother to the Duke of Blackmore.”
A duke’s brother. Bloody hell. It figured she’d smile at him and put her hand on his bloody arm. They’d be perfect together. Moonlight and sunlight. Aristocratic bloodlines and unnaturally beautiful offspring.
“Lord Colin arrived shortly after you did, sir.” Nash sounded amused. “With his wife and their two daughters.”
“Wife?”
“Indeed. Lady Colin is there with him, now.” Nodding toward the woman with the child-swollen belly and spiraling honey hair, the butler didn’t bother to disguise his smirk.
If Lacey was married, then why had Hannah gazed up at him with such … fondness? Had he promised her a position as his mistress? Was that why she smiled sweetly at him then turned to ice with Jonas?
“Lord and Lady Colin run a girls’ school in Devonshire. Miss Gray may be able to tell you more. She attended the school some years ago and has maintained a friendship with the Lacey family.”
Sanity began to seep back into his thick, muddy head. Blast. He shouldn’t be concerning himself with the Snow Queen. He shouldn’t be asking about the men for whom she saved her smiles or what about Jonas sent her scurrying.
He was here to do a job. That was all.
“My lord.” Nash bowed.
Jonas frowned at the butler then saw the shadow approach from behind him. He turned. “Holstoke.”
The earl stood an inch or two taller than Jonas, but it was his stillness more than his height that made him an imposing presence. Most people shrank or fidgeted beneath that icy-green stare.
Jonas was not so easily intimidated.
“My wife wants me to speak with you.”
He remembered the cold, flinty voice, the impenetrable expression. The man’s demeanor was one reason Jonas had considered him a suspect in the poisoning deaths of two women. That and the fact that his mother had employed similar methods to kill many of her victims.
Eventually, Jonas had rejected the probability of Holstoke as the perpetrator, but not before the earl had decided to dislike him. Understandable, really. No one enjoyed being accused of murder, particularly when one became the real murderer’s target, along with one’s wife and sister.
They’d worked together the previous summer when saving Eugenia and Hannah had lit them both with a killing fire. But Holstoke’s dislike remained, visible as the man’s emerald cravat pin.
“Your wife made a similar recommendation to me,” Jonas said now with a smile he knew would irritate the earl. “Puzzling, that.”
“Yes. Puzzling.” He fell silent, studying Jonas’s face.
Jonas waited. Long, empty seconds. Nothing. “Well, now,” he said finally. “Stimulating conversation, my lord. Perhaps we should do it again at the next house party where I’m tasked with finding lost things.” He started to leave but halted at Holstoke’s next words.
“My sister is not an option for you, Hawthorn.”
Slowly, he pivoted.
“She never will be.”
“Who says I want her?”
Holstoke raised a brow. “Who says I wanted Eugenia before we wed?”
Grinning, Jonas rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “Anyone with eyes, man.”
“Precisely.”
Jonas’s grin faded. “Put away your dueling pistols, Holstoke. I am not here for her. I’m here to do a job. That’s the beginning and the end of it.”
“She has little experience with a man like you,” the earl continued as though Jonas hadn’t spoken. “What seduces some women frightens others. If you give a damn for her, I suggest you keep your distance.”
Shock prickled his nape. “Frightened. Of me?” He shook his head. “That is pure shite. She knows I would bloody well die for her.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud—and certainly not to Hannah’s overprotective brother.
“Indeed. You almost did. We are all grateful for—”
“There’s no need to lie, man. I know what you’re after.”
“Do you?”
“Aye.” He invoked Southwark and Norwich and Dorchester to hammer his point. “Somebody tha’ don’t ’ave to borrow ’is coat for a foine par’ee such as this. Ain’t that so, m’lord?” This time, his grin accompanied a taunting bow. “Nevah say Oi ain’t quick.” He tapped his temple. “Me ’ead’s fick, but me eyes see righ’ enough.”
Holstoke tilted his head at an analytical angle. “Then, you’ll no doubt see the wisdom of remaining out of sight and letting her find a husband better able to give her what she needs.”
Against his will, he felt his own mocking mouth curl into a snarl. “Husband?”
“That is why she’s here.” Holstoke said the words calmly, as though he hadn’t just swung a hammer at Jonas’s knees.
Once he caught his breath, Jonas asked softly, “And what is it she needs?” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Let me guess. Something to do with pockets and the contents therein.”
Holstoke frowned and seemed about to reply, but Jonas was done.
Done with the conversation.
Done with bloody aristocrats.
Done with Snow Queens who wanted a husband—any husband.
Except Jonas Bartholomew Hawthorn.
As much as he wanted to be done with her, however, his body had other ideas. Late that night, it wanted to remember.
He’d spent the afternoon chasing details about the missing trunk and searching the castle and grounds. After his rushed ride from London to Northumberland and the long day of fruitless hunting, he should have fallen asleep easily. He didn’t.
Instead, he lay in the dark upon an oversized bed that didn’t creak, surrounded by brown velvet and blue silk. A cool breeze blew through the open window, caressing his skin with the scent of sea and summer.
His eyes felt dry, but they wouldn’t close. They wanted moonlight. They wanted to see her.
With a curse, he sat up on the edge of the bed and ran a hand down his face. He’d walked away from her before. It had hurt. Badly. But he’d done it. No reason he couldn’t do it again.
But the thought of how they’d parted sent memories surging.
The first glimpse of her, composed and solemn in the light of her brother’s London drawing room, had caught him off guard. She’d worn a gauzy pink gown. Daylight from the windows had shone through its layers, outlining slender hips and a small, round bosom.
He’d found her beautiful in silhouette. Then, he’d met her eyes—extraordinary, icy green. And it had been all he could do not to stare. She’d been pure propriety, chin high, gaze cool and opaque. But a blush had touched those pale cheeks. Rosebud lips had parted on the faintest sigh. Thick, black lashes had fluttered.
He’d been driven closer, wanting to find something to weaken his sudden fascination. Her coldness should have done it.
It occurs to me I’ve indulged you quite enough by granting a man of your sort an audience in the first place, Mr. Hawthorn.
God, he’d wanted to kiss her. He’d had a job to do, a murderer to catch. But he’d wanted to follow that blush where it led. Melt coldness into heat.
He’d never reacted to a woman that way. Most succumbed easily. Most fell for his grin, gave him too much too quickly. He’d always rewarded their generosity with pleasure, but that was all it had ever been—passing pleasure. He didn’t bother with innocents, let alone haughty, remote innocents from aristocratic bloodlines.
She was different. More. From the beginning, he’d seen it—the crinkle of concern when he’d mentioned the two murdered women. The reaction to his nearness, as though he both flustered and tempted her.
Now, he rubbed his eyes and forced himself to remember the rest. He’d gone back to Holstoke House several times. At every turn, he’d questioned himself, cursed his damned fascination. The pretext had been his investigation into the poisonings, of course. But he’d gone there for her.
To hear her say, “Good day, Mr. Hawthorn,” in that cool, soft voice.
To watch pink bloom in those cheeks while ice-green eyes flitted to his mouth and over his chest.
To listen to her amusingly haughty insults.
When did you say Lord Holstoke would return?
I did not.
Mmm. I thought you had.
You thought wrong, Mr. Hawthorn. One has the impression it is not the first time.
Her spark had sunk into him like a hook—the contrast of her heated reactions and perfect calm was a mystery he hadn’t had the fortitude to resist.
Then, Holstoke had taken her back to the safety of Dorsetshire while Hawthorn had hunted the man poisoning women who surrounded the son of Lydia Brand. His blood had thrummed with hard urgency. He’d been focused as never before. Relentless.
He’d followed the poisoner’s tracks into a back street near Covent Garden. Discovered a connection to Hannah that suggested she was the poisoner’s next target. Everything inside him had roared with the need to find her. Protect her.
Then, he’d been blindsided by two arrows, one through the shoulder and the other through his thigh. Drayton had found him. Taken him to Dunston’s house, where a surgeon had removed the arrows and stitched his wounds.
But something inside him would not let him stop. He’d ridden to Dorsetshire with Dunston and Drayton. He’d been out of his head by the time they’d reached Primvale Castle.
His body remembered, though. That snowfall voice telling him he was not permitted to die. Ordering her brother to do whatever was necessary to keep him alive.
He remembered pain. Heat. Opening his eyes to see her, midnight and moonlight, sitting at his bedside in the pink light of dawn, in the yellow light of day, in the blue light of night. Sometimes, he’d catch her watching him, odd yearning in her eyes. Other times, he’d thrash awake to feel her almost touching him. She would murmur his name and order him to rest, then read to him while snowfall gentled his fever.
Once, he’d thought she might have kissed him. But he must have dreamt it.
Days later, when his fever had finally broken, he’d found her standing at his window, gazing out upon her brother’s gardens, still as a statue. He’d croaked her name. Reached for her. She’d drifted close, her expression shuttered. She hadn’t taken his hand.
He’d demanded to know everything—had she been hurt? Had they found the poisoner? Then, he’d asked his final question—why had she stayed with him?
Her only answer had been silence. But he’d known. Pity. The obligation one felt for a crazed man who’d risked his life for a woman he scarcely knew.
She’d left the room. Left him alone with his conclusions.
After the poisoner had captured her, Jonas had been too bloody weak to help, though he’d managed to drag his arse from the bed and organize a search. Ultimately, Holstoke, Dunston, and Drayton had killed the blackguard and saved both Hannah and Eugenia.
In the following days, she’d frozen harder, her indifference a seamless mirror. At breakfast, she’d scarcely looked in his direction. When the time had come for him to leave, she’d fled to her bedchamber to avoid even the courtesy of a proper farewell.
He’d felt like a dog cast out into the street. But the message had been as clear then as it was today—she wasn’t meant for him. Hannah Gray would marry someone with better blood, better manners, a better coat.
She’d marry a man with wealth and land and servants. Not a soldier-turned-Bow-Street-man with nothing to offer but his wits and his body.
Sitting on the guest bed in a grand castle in Northumberland, Jonas linked his fingers behind his nape, hung his head, and repeated what he already knew. I must forget her, damn it. Forget her, forget her, forget her.
It rarely worked, and it didn’t now. His body demanded the memories. Creamy, blushing skin. Pale, curious eyes. Rosebud lips he wanted to kiss.
With a foul curse, he gave in. Shoved to his feet. Found his coat and the hinged box he kept in the lowest pocket.
He lit a candle. Stood naked and hard and hopeless as he opened the box decorated with the moon and stars.
Then, he pulled out the sketches drawn by a desperate man. Exquisite. Untouchable. Pristine. He let himself imagine her cool hands upon his face, her soft lips upon his mouth. He permitted himself one last moment of delusion. Then, with a shaking hand, he lowered the paper to the candle’s flame. Watched it catch. Watched it burn.
And threw an idiot’s dreams into the fireplace, where they could end the way they’d always been meant to—in ashes.
*~*~*
CHAPTER FIVE
“Do not feed me gruel and expect me to take it for ambrosia. I am neither sufficiently famished nor sufficiently foolish for such inadequacies.”
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter responding to said gentleman’s faint praise.
Hannah let the conversation in Lady Wallingham’s drawing room swirl around her, a light breeze of feminine sound. Meanwhile, she po
ndered the flavor of unearned victory. It tasted like blancmange.
“Mr. Winstead seems remarkably … sensible,” proclaimed Maureen. “I never knew steeping the same tea leaves four times could trim one’s expenses so markedly.”
Meredith Huxley, the warm, round Countess of Berne, huffed a protest. “After the second steeping, can it rightly be called ‘tea’?”
“No,” answered Lady Wallingham tartly. “Nor can the man suggesting it rightly be called an Englishman.”
“I must say, I preferred Mr. Brown,” commented Sarah Lacey, resting a hand upon her swollen belly. “He appeared most taken with Miss Gray.”
Annabelle Conrad, the eldest of five Huxley daughters, chuckled. “How could you tell? He spoke not a word—not even when he backed into the urn.”
“Perhaps he is clumsy,” offered Jane, the Duchess of Blackmore and the second-oldest Huxley daughter. She nudged her spectacles and sipped her coffee. “One should make allowances. We are not all born graceful, you know.”
The fiery-haired, freckled Charlotte Chatham, Marchioness of Rutherford, raised a finger. “As one who was not, I can confirm Mr. Brown is, indeed, smitten and not merely a habitual toppler.”
The exquisite, raven-haired Viola Kilbrenner, Countess of Tannenbrook, giggled. “Oh, Charlotte. Now, you simply must tell us how you know.” Seated between the exceptionally tall Lady Rutherford and the somewhat tall Augusta Kilbrenner, Viola resembled a tiny, sparkling fairy guarded by two red-haired Valkyries.
Not that she needed protecting—Viola’s husband, Lord Tannenbrook, was the same size as his mountainous cousin, Sebastian Reaver. Whose real name was Elijah Kilbrenner and whose wife was Augusta. Which made Viola and Augusta cousins-in-law.
Didn’t it? Keeping everyone straight had become a chore. All she knew was that remembering names and titles was part of appearing normal. So, over the past four days since the garden luncheon, she’d resorted to tying small labels around chess pieces—white for ladies, black for gentlemen—to memorize names and connections.
She’d quickly run out of pieces.
“We bumblers are rarely surprised by our mishaps,” Charlotte replied. “Chagrined, perhaps, but not surprised. Mr. Brown was positively dumbstruck.”
